


Aren’t You Just A Wonder

by Chromat1cs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Blade Runner Fusion, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Escapism, M/M, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs, sexy heelies to escape the feelies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromat1cs/pseuds/Chromat1cs
Summary: In the back corner of this end of Los Angeles, a place called Avalon glows a gut-sharp pink and holds all manner of ecstasy within. Remus is tired after a long week of goose chases, and Sirius is a very generous giver.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93





	Aren’t You Just A Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you R. for the quick beta!
> 
> Dipping my toe back into these two after several months away~  
> The scaffolding of this crossover is a little rickety but it wouldn't quit until it was written. I hope you enjoy, thank you for reading ^^

_ Skttch. _

Sirius would recognize that sound anywhere.

Tipping his head back over his shoulder to look toward the darkened blur of the club’s entrance, his vision limned with the shadowy neon swim hemmed by the low glow of Avalon’s candy-purple neon interior, Sirius breaks into an adder’s grin. He rolls his hips once more against the face of the nameless customer hounding forward, slavering over Sirius’ body with Sirius’ hand wrapped into their hair like a pair of reins while they bury their nose in his crotch, and winks as he turns away with a languid twist. Sirius makes his way straight toward the door that has just ushered a familiar figure in from the rain lighting up a smoke.

“Hell of a night, isn’t it?” Sirius leans against the wall with his elbow, his fist propped delicately against the side of his face, and cocks his head at the man dripping wet from his shoulders and hems down into the plush black carpet at his feet. Sirius’ voice is couched in his best come-hitherment and pitched like smoke spun up for the express purpose of a knockout, but he knows the man doesn’t need it. Remus Lupin, blade runner and heavily-kept secret, looks up through a drag on one of his cigarettes and frowns.

“That’s a word for it.”

Winding his arm around Remus’ shoulders, Sirius presses himself close to the cold damp along Remus’ coat as though he could leech it away with nothing but his bare skin. “It’s been a few days,” he murmurs at the height of Remus’ jaw. There’s stubble there and the hint of something fresh, something like sweat or adrenaline or even the tang of spilt blood—Sirius knows well enough by now not to ask after it. He wouldn’t get a straight answer anyhow.

“I need a drink.” Remus’ breath is a bit sour with drink already from so near, and Sirius watches him silently for a thread of a second before replying; he adjusts his posture, slips a bit nearer against Remus’ chest and slides his flat palm down to the shape of his belt buckle beneath the heft of his coat.

Sirius tips his jaw up, sharp nose bunting Remus’ earlobe lightly, “Can it wait?”

He puts on the same face for every customer, the bitch in heat act, but only Remus gets to the flesh of it besides vague promises and the tease of Sirius’ bare ass on the stage. Sirius never intended for it to get so far—but, then again, he’s always lived by the tenet of  _ Let life lead where it likes _ and he hasn’t had too many complaints. Sirius grins when Remus catches him around the wrist with the hand not busied with smoking. His touch is warm.

“No,” Remus murmurs back, smoke pluming from his mouth and those honey-blade eyes honed with exhaustion, “it can’t.”

Sirius’ guts stir, a sharp tug, and he relents. Twisting his hand to lace his fingers together with Remus’, he guides them both toward the blue-black stand of the bar. “It’s on the house.”

The deep, basal thrum of the music pumps like the heartbeat of this place, its whalebone stands of poles and stages strewn through the club to hug around its lungs breathing pleasure and heat and life into the sorry sprawl of the city around it.  _ Avalon, _ a fitting name for a refuge like this. Home to some of the finest dancers, it’s one of the only places where one can cater to fantasies regardless of the body’s origins and not feel dirty for it—unless, of course, dirty is exactly what they’re after. Sirius has never been one to judge anyways.

Remus sits so heavily onto the bar seat that Sirius thinks the man might be weighed down with slag in his pockets. Sirius raises one sleek eyebrow as he slides a pair of small, dark shot glasses over to Remus. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.” Remus nips into the first shot without so much as a twitch of a wince, downing it smoothly and chasing it with the second. Sirius watches him steadily, grey eyes unflagging, and waits until Remus finally glances at him to let another smile slip over his lips. Remus frowns. “What?”

“You get a crease between your eyes,” Sirius hums, “right  _ here _ ”—he strokes one slow caress of a forefinger across the gap between Remus’ brows —”whenever you’re stressed.”

Remus’ jaw tightens and he raises a quick hand at the bartender to bring a third shot of the same dark liquor to rest in front of him. “Stressed,” he growls, “doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

And Sirius adores that growl, savors the way it promises a splendid unwinding within the half-hour, so he grins again and takes a step closer to Remus’ tense hunch in his seat. Sirius plays his fingers at the hair curling rain-damp against the height of Remus’ coat collar, slots himself close into the crook of Remus’ arm, and takes pride in the way Remus relaxes ever so slightly against the naked expanse of Sirius’ chest. “Take your time, angel, I have all night.”

There’s a very slight hesitation in Remus’ movement before he shifts to slide one hand up the back of Sirius’ left thigh, beneath the short crop of the leather pleats barely covering the shorts ridden up over his ass, to squeeze one round swell of it with steady pressure. Sirius bites down on his lip and grins, leaning into it. “Or,” he amends, airy and half of a breathless chuckle against Remus’ right temple, “don’t.”

Remus takes a slow drag on his cigarette, still not looking directly at Sirius but kneading softly against Sirius with meditative steadiness. “Just—give me a second.” He sounds rough from so close, wrung out dry over the Los Angeles streets like all the blade runners are these days even in the driving rain, so Sirius simply presses a kiss against the wet toss of his hair and lets Remus touch him.

“I have  _ all  _ night,” he repeats, a purr even though he doesn’t have an ounce of convincing left to do. Remus stays quiet this time, smoking and finishing off his drink in silence, and Avalon pulses around them like the heavy tick of Sirius’ heartbeat awaiting the separate and compounded paradise of getting their time alone.

It’s the smallest nod of Remus’ head that signals his readiness to slip away into the back of the club, a twitch that almost wouldn’t register against Sirius’ shoulder had Sirius not felt it countless times before. Sirius backs up to let him stand—not so far that Remus removes his hand from the guarding and vaguely possessive touch against Sirius’ ass, but just far enough to let Remus step away from the bar and let Sirius guide him to the dark maw of the unlit corridors that snake into the Eden of the private rooms.

They’re only supposed to be for dancing, but then again the simple fact of objective morality has been dead for several decades now. Sirius should probably take more precautions given that it’s a blade runner he fucks. Those worries went out the window a very long time ago.

_ Don’t go telling the whole precinct now,  _ Sirius had half-joked after their fifth or sixth time locking themselves in to lose time in one another’s bodies. Remus was buckling his belt again, the holster of his gun heavy and threatening against his thigh, when he paused to look hard at Sirius.

_ I would never put you in danger like that. _ The conviction in his voice was strong, a heavy bolt of it, and Sirius’ own words had stuck a little in his throat at that.

_ What, are your compatriots animals? _ Still naked and uncaring in the soft pink pet of the lights traced along the ceiling seams, Sirius thought a fleeting glance of an idea that the gun only really seemed so monstrous because of the true vulnerability hiding just below it—minutes earlier, Remus had been stripped bare and had those very thighs parted to Sirius’ guidance with enthusiastic pleading. Remus’ eyes had flashed as he pulled his shirt back on over his head.

_ If any of them are ever here, _ Remus’ hiss a venomous thing as Sirius watched him fiercely,  _ it won’t be for the right reasons. You hide from them, do you hear me? _

Blinking once, twice, Sirius had swallowed the reply of  _ What would you consider the right reasons _ before nodding.  _ Understood. _

The door locks softly behind them as the lights bloom on softly to throw their magenta kiss against every edge and corner of the room. Sirius helps Remus slip out of his coat, following the wet fabric down Remus’ arms with the warm rake of his own palms, and lets it pool on the floor before taking Remus’ hand and drawing him forward. “Do you want to talk about it?” Sirius murmurs.

Remus sits at the foot of the low, flat bed on the purple silk sheets and pulls Sirius down into his lap. “Not particularly.”

There are leagues of unsaid things that have woven themselves between Sirius and his blade runner over the months of their meeting up—the weight of Remus’ tasks on his shoulders pressing like Atlas’ burden, track and deceive and kill, or is it even considered killing if it’s a replicant?—that create such a thick snarl on their shared loom of threads that Sirius can’t even think of unraveling it all lest he send his thoughts into some kind of unsalvageable spiral. He knows Remus has ended lives with the gun currently sliding to the ground as Sirius unlatches the holster. He knows Remus has faced the decision of Kill Or Be Killed in the worst corners of the city, worse than the shithole where Sirius lives, and has seen the ugliest faces of humanity in every turn. But the fact that he seeks solace and beauty and comfort in the angles of Sirius’ body,  _ that _ is Remus’ saving grace even when he doesn’t detail the whole of his hardships.

Sirius braces one hand on Remus’ shoulder while he combs the other through his own hair, raking the glossed fall of it back and pulling a slow roll up through the length of his body to grind against the heat of Remus’ thighs. “Go ahead,” he spurs Remus as he watches the way his gaze flickers eagerly along the high points of Sirius’ body, “touch.”

Again Remus’ hands are warm, their initial jitter gone with the slow bleed of nicotine and alcohol wending through his veins, and he sets them flat against the long vee of Sirius’ waist. He touches carefully, as though handling something precious—Sirius’ insides spark mightily, a hot burst of affection deep in his belly, when Remus slides his palms slowly over Sirius’ skin and rests his thumbs on each of Sirius’ nipples. The left one is pierced, a small bar capped with star-shaped diamonds, and Remus leans in to lick it slowly as Sirius tips his head back to surrender to it.

“Missed you,” Remus murmurs against Sirius’ skin. He flattens his tongue against the nipple again before tipping his head up into a trail of open-mouthed kisses that trip along Siirus’ collar bone and Sirius continues the cant of his hips, moving and shifting to the slow pulse of the music still barely audible in the club beyond their sanctuary here. Sirius feels himself hardening as he presses continually against Remus and bares himself to the splendor of that mouth along his chest and neck, and the telltale heaviness beneath him as Remus grows ready as well teases him along ever further.

“How do you need it tonight?” Sirius breathes, still holding fast to Remus’ shoulder. He always asks and Remus’ answer rarely changes, but Sirius can never be sure exactly what the day behind him that has spurred Remus into the low throat of Avalon’s offerings has made him want. Sometimes he wants a dance and nothing more, oftentimes a fuck, rarely to simply lie down atop the bed covers and be held.

Remus pulls Sirius forward to give him the angle to tug Sirius’ earlobe between his teeth very lightly. “I need you to fuck me,” he whispers, hoarse and breaking very slightly over the struts of fatigue nested between each syllable, “until I forget what I’ve been doing since I last saw you.”

Call it compulsion, call it obedience, call it whatever tastes right—Sirius turns his face to catch Remus’ mouth on his, desperate and open and warm-wet as Sirius assuages him in the only language they seem to speak fluently from body to body, limb to limb, skin to searing skin. He slides his hand over to cradle Remus at the nape of his neck and works on tugging the hem of his shirt up out of his belt with the other, devouring him, swallowing him whole despite the broken pieces Sirius knows are there around Remus’ edges and would cut the whole way down if he minded in the slightest.

Sirius strips Remus slowly, reverently, uncovering the scar-threaded plane of his body inch by unfurling inch. He has asked after those scars before—a bitter and unknowing snort of  _ What do you do, tear them apart bare-handed? _ the first time they’d fucked, adding accidentally to the miles of walls between himself and Remus that he’s so steadily chipped down over months of simply listening and existing to touch and be touched—and never received a direct answer. Sirius doesn’t feel like he needs one any longer, content simply to feel those scrawls of life passing by and taste them beneath his fingers and tongue and meandering eyes.

“Look at me,” Sirius whispers, gently tipping Remus’ chin up to make those tired eyes meet his own. They burn like a coal fire, incessant and fueled from the inside out, and lance Sirius straight down to his core. “Tell me what you want.”

Remus’ hands, rambling without words of their own, skitter over Sirius’ chest and arms and hips but don’t give direction. Stood up between Remus’ parted knees, Sirius’ minuscule Avalon uniform the only scrap of clothing left between them, Sirius stills those hands with a gentle touch and waits an extra several breaths before trying again; “Tell me, Remus.”

Wetting his lips with a quick dart of his tongue, Remus blinks a few times and breaths through his nose before swallowing. “Leave it on,” he says carefully, “the skirt, while you fuck me into the bed.”

Approval wells up, thick and blood-warm in the core of Sirius’ body, and spreads down through the pathways of Sirius’ limbs as he catches Remus in a deep dive of a kiss writ through with the full-hearted  _ Yes _ of it all. He pulls back with a lingering and feather-light nip on Remus’ lower lip. “That I can do, angel.”

Remus lays himself back into the silken toss of the covers in a long and grateful sprawl, his arms laid out long and boneless above his head in repose so desperate that Sirius nearly needs to pause for a moment to process the blind trust of it.  _ We’re not so different, _ he’s murmured before into the quiet of a bundled-up fold on this same bed when Remus has just wanted to be held,  _ you and I. _

_ Of course we aren’t, _ Remus’ voice has hummed against Sirius’ breastbone.  _ Of course we aren’t. _

And so Sirius fucks him earnestly, intently, as deeply as he ever has before. Remus holds fast to him as Sirius carefully slides into his body, moment by moment, breath hot against Sirius’ neck and fingers gripping hard where he pulls at Sirius’ body to get closer, closer, impossibly closer. Adjusted, relaxed, hungry for more, Remus spurs him to a faster pace soon enough—toes curling, legs locking around Sirius’ hips, groaning and pleading for more as he gasps into the pink-dark of the room; “Sirius,” he chokes out, and it sounds like a prayer.

“How is it,” Sirius pants, one hand holding the base of Remus’ cock and the other with a thumb in his open, wanting mouth, “do you like it? Getting fucked in the back room of a club by a whore in a skirt?”

Remus’ cock twitches hard and his body clenches sweetly around Sirius, the instinctive response deep as an ocean as Remus lets a fraught sound of encouragement trip past his lips around the press of Sirius’ finger. He nods, his hair mussing wildly against the sheets, as he looks down at where they join, Sirius in to the hilt with the short pleats of his skirt ridden up and shifting almost rudely with every thrust, the opening of one latex leg of his shorts simply pulled to the side. “Fuck,” Remus whimpers, weak to his own cravings.

“How good does it feel to let go?” Pressing Remus down with a wide, flat hand against his chest, down against the bed with a pressure that brooks no resistance but for Remus arching up against the touch, Sirius shifts the angle of his hips with one expert push that has Remus’ eyes rolling back and his voice catching like wool on a bent nail. “Let go, Remus.”

“D—Don’t want to,” Remus gasps, “I can’t.”

“You can,” Sirius insists. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut and stave off his own impending orgasm, can feel it barreling up from his insides like the roll of some distant undertow, but he keeps his eyes set on Remus and begins moving the hand wrapped around Remus’ cock in tight, concentrated twists. Crying out, Remus squeezes one fist around the sheets under him; his ankles dig with wild shifts against Sirius’ back and thighs, he tosses his head with scrambling pleasure to tear Sirius’ thumb out of his mouth, he bucks against Sirius with nearly punishing accuracy on every downstroke.

“I—!” Remus whimpers, the sinewy length of him taut as steel cable and  _ Fuck, _ Sirius can feel him tensing through ever fiber of his body as completion threatens. Sirius holds him by the hip, a tender hold that grips hard because he cares, and grits his teeth.

“Let go, Remus,” again on a low oath Sirius bidding him forward. Remus tosses his head again, blush high and red on his face, his chest, his cock—Sirius’ hand speeds up, sees him through, beckons him like the bid of every movement Sirius has ever made. 

Remus comes with a gasp so sharp Sirius nearly feels its blade against his arteries. He twitches up into Sirius’ fist, seeking friction, and cries out with a broken cough of a moan as he spills thick across his stomach. Sirius clenches his jaw, feels himself approaching the tipping point, and keeps his hand moving around Remus’ cock as he delves into the heat wrapped around him for the last pocket of bliss he’ll find here tonight.

When Sirius bursts, the white fractal of it shattering gloriously behind his eyes, Remus has a hand on his shoulder as though tugging him through some wide abyss to keep them together. He comes hard and long, his fingertips digging sweetly into the flats of Remus’ hips, and only opens his eyes again when he’s sure he hasn’t fallen into a trillion pieces at the end of a nameless cliffside far, far away.

They clean up together, Sirius pulling out carefully and Remus helping him as best he can to keep anything from getting on the sheets. They make use of a handful of tissues and some water from the shallow urn on the far side of the room beneath the mirror that needs a good dusting, and finally Sirius removes his skirt and shorts to bundle himself up beside Remus in full and honest nakedness.

“I can’t stay for long.” Remus’ voice is rough but drunk with refraction, and Sirius can’t help but grin a little at it. Lain across from him, sideways and sweat-tacked and laced with the smells of sex and satisfaction, Remus looks far less like a reaper and much more like the drifting son he is underneath the raiment of his job.

“Neither can I,” Sirius hums as he traces a slow finger over the corners of Remus’ lips. Remus lets him for several moments before he stills the touch with a small sparkle behind his eyes.

“You always do that, afterwards.”

Sirius shrugs, an uneven movement against the press of the bed. “I like your mouth. It sort of looks like mine.”

That glimmer in Remus’ stare stutters a bit, a catch in the glow of it that Sirius notes like a sharp change in weather. Remus’ fingers tighten where they’ve caught Sirius. “How can I be sure,” he whispers, his face gentle for his repose but still hardened by the ferocity in his stare, “that we’re not the same?”

Sympathy wars with vindication deep in the recesses of Sirius’ spirit, the spirit that very few people and absolutely none of the others in Remus’ ranks believe he could ever have as a Nexus-8. He turns his hand and presses the tips of Remus’ fingers to his mouth, kissing them gently as he holds Remus’ gaze and does not blink. He cradles Remus’ hand against his chest, pressed against his heartbeat, and leans their foreheads together. “All you can do is exist.”

Remus shuts his eyes and lets out a low, thin sigh. They circle back to the question every time they do this—dive into the deepest reaches of their humanity, slide their bodies together, press at the seams of sanity on the edge of climax and yank themselves back again—but Sirius never knows how to ease or appease Remus’ preoccupation. He may be a replicant, or he may just be overcautious. The tests are useless. EIther way, nothing either of them might do could change that.

And so the best Sirius can do is lay beside him. He hopes it’s enough.

It must be enough.


End file.
